“Nonsense! I wouldn’t dream of burdening you with it. Trot along and put it on the berth. It doesn’t matter about folding it up.”
“All right,” said Bream moodily.
He trotted along. There are moments when a man feels that all he needs in order to be a delivery wagon is a horse and a driver. Bream Mortimer was experiencing such a moment.
“He had better chirrup to the dog while he’s there, don’t you think?” suggested Sam. He felt that a resolute man with legs as long as Bream’s might well deposit a cloak on a berth and be back under the half-minute.
“Oh yes! Bream!”
“Hello?”
“While you’re down there, just chirrup a little more to poor Pinky. He does appreciate it so!”
Bream disappeared. It is not always easy to interpret emotion from a glance at a man’s back; but Bream’s back looked like that of a man to whom the thought has occurred that, given a couple of fiddles and a piano, he would have made a good hired orchestra.
“How is your dear little dog, by the way?” inquired Sam solicitously, as he fell into step by her side.
“Much better now, thanks. I’ve made friends with a girl on board—did you ever hear her name—Jane Hubbard—she’s a rather well-known big-game hunter, and she fixed up some sort of a mixture for Pinky which did him a world of good. I don’t know what was in it except Worcester Sauce, but she said she always gave it to her mules in Africa when they had the botts ... it’s very nice of you to speak so affectionately of poor Pinky when he bit you.”